Running For The Moon
by Wayoming
Summary: Wholock ficlets, based on prompts. What happens when Sherlock meets Amy? If Rory and John were lovers? And how many times will The Doctor turn up in Sherlock's life before he says enough? Will the Doctor agree to take Anderson to the Jurassic Period?
1. Sherlock and The Impossible Woman

**So recently I've been getting a lot of Wholock prompts… I shall hereby be putting them here, because I'm finding them fun to write!**

**Sherlock and The Impossible Woman**

"What do you want?"

It had come to this. He had finally confronted her. The woman. The disappearing, intriguing, _impossible_ woman.

It had begun two months ago, in the middle of one of the hottest summers London had seen in recent years. Midnight had passed and the temperature had not dropped, which was why Sherlock Holmes found himself wide awake and staring out of all of the open windows of Baker Street. At first he thought it was the heat, affecting his brain, making him see things. But after blinking, and _knowing_ that he wasn't going mad, Sherlock found his lip curled in anticipation of a mystery.

He had spied in the empty street below a woman. A woman of pale skin and sharp eyes. She stood, legs strong, face upturned to look directly at his window. The only problem with this woman was the fact, the _indisputable_ fact, that seconds beforehand she hadn't been there. It was if she had merely popped into existence.

As it turned out, she had.

It had taken time to find her roots, to work out who she was, but of course he had done it. He had scoured archives feverishly, following the flash of burning hair and the arch of her waving hand. He had seen her at crime scenes, at the height of the chase, at the calm that followed a solved case. Always watching.  
>And now here she was. Nowhere to go.<p>

"Amy Pond, answer my question. Why have you been stalking me, appearing everywhere to only dissolve into darkness?"

He could see the fire in her eyes. Could see a smirk tugging at her lips as she struggled to fight back a chuckle.

"I had to get your interest somehow Sherlock." She said quietly, her confident strides bringing her barely an arms width away from him. "A mind like yours will only come with the call of a mystery." She was close enough for him to sweep her into his arms. He flexed his hand at his side.

She saw the movement, and held out her own.

"Come with me," she breathed, lips barely parting as he felt her eyes bore into his own "you have so much to see."

The electricity running through Sherlock's veins as his skin touched hers was enough to crackle behind his eyes, enough to burn him in the cooling night, she would burn him alive.

Her red lips quirked into a smile. She then pulled out a mobile phone from her skirt pocket. Dialling quickly and pulling the phone up to her ear her smile broke into a feverish grin, and the fingers interlaced with his tightened slightly.  
>"I have him." she said.<p>

Anyone glancing twice at the alley they had been stood in would have had to look twice that night. Because one moment a tall man and his impossible lady had been stood there, and the next they were not.


	2. When The Doctor Came To Call

**The prompt for this one was: The Doctor has very recently lost Rose, and considers Sherlock for a new companion.**

His hearts throbbed in his chest. It was time. Time to stop being alone. He stripped of his shirt jacket, throwing it into a cupboard door that had only recently appeared on the flight deck of the TARDIS, and had braced himself for what he was about to do.

"Right." He began, "You can't mess me around, alright? I don't need that, I need-"

What did he need?  
>He'd been travelling alone ever since he'd lost…her. She'd been so real, so human.<br>_Humans,_ he thought shaking his head, _is__there__ever__one__of__them__that__I__'__ll__find__easy__to__leave__behind?_

He knew that this had been different. He hadn't left her behind. She'd been ripped from him.

_Rose.__Lost__forever_.

He roared at himself before continuing to speak to the TARDIS.  
>"Take me to Earth, to London, take me somewhere that's-" He bit off the last word, failing to believe that he could say it.<br>"To someone _fun_!"  
>He grimaced out a smile as the TARDIS obeyed.<p>

That was the day The Doctor met Sherlock Holmes.

—

It was quiet, for once. There were no gunshots, no shouts of frustration, no sense of danger in the air as John Watson climbed up the stairs to 221B. This, for those who knew Baker Street, was not normal. And John knew Baker Street better than any other place he had lived.

"Sherlock!" He called, opening the door into the living room.

Empty. The front room was empty. But not only empty, _cleaned_. As though someone had come in, seen the debris that constituted their front room and had _organised_ it.  
>John gaped for full minute before thinking to check any other rooms.<p>

It was only when he reached the kitchen, after searching his and Sherlock's bedrooms and finding them untouched and normal, laptops and valuables in their rightful places, that anything was different.

Sat at the table was a man. Reading John's copy of Grey's Anatomy.  
>He was scruffy haired and tall, with glasses on the end of a crooked nose, striped suit contrasted with a rather battered looking pair of Converse trainers. Hearing John enter the man turned to face him and his face split into a wide grin.<p>

"Hello there! You must be John! Sorry I let myself in, and helped myself to your papers, -well I say let myself in, don't look in the airing cupboard- I was just looking through some of your books, I find it helps to remind myself of the human nervous system sometimes. But yes, ah no need to point that at me, I'm the Doctor!"

This speech had disarmed John somewhat. He had expected the stranger to insist he wasn't a burglar and beg John not to shoot him. He lowered his gun and looked at the man with utmost confusion. The gun hadn't phased him, he hadn't even stood up. After finishing his speech he returned to Grey's and said calmly,  
>"Any chance of a cuppa?"<p>

_One__of__Sherlock__'__s__friends._ John mused, convincing himself. _As__if__one__lunatic__isn__'__t__difficult__enough__to__keep__under__control._

"One lump or two?" John heard himself ask.  
>"Two please."<p>

It struck John how very bizarre the situation was. So he ignored it and sipped his tea. He was still sat with the strange stranger (for that's the only way John could describe him) fifteen minutes later when Sherlock bounded into the room.

"John, I've got it, the restaraunt has a bunker beneath it-"  
>His stopped dead as he took in the sight before him.<p>

John, calm, tea in hand. Sat opposite a stranger, John's book held firmly, toothy grin splitting his features.  
>"Mr Holmes!" The stranger began, "A pleasure to meet you! I've heard so much about you! I've always wondered, how do you-"<br>"John. Who is this?" Sherlock snapped. John gaped absently.  
>"Buggered if I know Sherlock! I though he was a contact of yours!"<p>

The stranger had bounded up to Sherlock, peering at him with awe and interest. His hands flapped a little as it seemed as though he was restraining himself.  
>"Do that thing you do! Where you know everything about a person, go on!"<p>

Sherlock favoured the man with a withering glance, before beginning.

"You're older than you look, a lot older, you're used to people looking up to you and thinking you know what to do and quite often you get tired of it. Well travelled, but you don't find much use for money. Intelligent, and you know it, and you enjoy others knowing it too. You've come here for something specific, either to speak to John or I, but how I'm not sure." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glanced at the stranger again before stalking into the front room, calling over his shoulder, "And though you've never married you've had love and lost it." He paused briefly. "Recently. You're also an alien."

The stranger didn't move, just turned to John and made an impressed sound, before adding  
>"I love it when he does that!"<p>

He followed Sherlock into the front room where he had proceeded to "rearrange", or more accurately kick, the tidy piles of papers and books that had been so neatly stacked.  
>"Ah yes, sorry about that, didn't want to leave it in such a mess once I'd finished with it." The stranger intoned.<p>

"No, I'm sorry," John broke in, staring transfixed at both the stranger and Sherlock "what the hell is going on! Who are you?"

"He's The Doctor, John."

Understanding dawned on John's face, and Sherlock smirked at the round "o" of surprise on The Doctor's face. "How do you-"  
>"We've met before." Sherlock said. "You said you'd, well <em>you<em>," he gestured vaguely at the suit-clad Doctor, "would come back for me. But you haven't met me yet. Where did you park the TARDIS?"  
>"Wait," broke in John, "it's not parked in <em>here<em> is it? In the flat? Because what if you said was true Sherlock then-"  
>John's sentence ended abruptly, as he went to check the airing cupboard.<br>"FUCK!" came a loud cry.  
>"I hadn't met John when we first met Doctor," Sherlock smiled fondly, "he's yet to experience the TARDIS. You always said you'd be back when you needed an <em>adventure<em>. So," he paused again, looking into the lost Doctor's eyes, "Rose is gone?"  
>"Yes." The Doctor rasped, finally getting to grips with the man who already knew him, "She's gone. And now I don't want to be alone anymore." He glanced away from Sherlock, "I need someone with me for a while. Just a little while. Long enough so that I don't feel it." He turned away from Sherlock, perplexed and wondering how much he knew about the ache in his hearts, and merely said "It could be dangerous?"<br>"More dangerous than last time? Hardly." Sherlock chuckled. "Anyway, that doesn't work on me. No Doctor, what I want from you is a favour."  
>The Doctor's eyebrow quirked in query.<br>"How does catching Jack the Ripper sound to you?"

Another yelp came from upstairs,  
>"SHERLOCK. IT'S BIGGER ON THE INSIDE. WHY IS IT BIGGER ON THE INSIDE?"<p>

The Doctor laughed as he led the way to the TARDIS.

"Sherlock, that sounds like an adventure. Alons-y!"


	3. Plowing At Dust

**This one is my favourite out of the drabbles/ficlets I've written in the past two days: John/Rory**

**Plowing at Dust**

He was drunk. Very drunk. And it didn't matter anymore. He had started by counting his drinks. But when he had gotten to seven John Watson had given up and wondered _Why__bother?_ It wasn't as if anyone was going to mind him stumbling home, through the streets of London, roaring drunk and returning to his poxy flat in order to end another day spent alone and miserable.

He had no one. And this morning he had realised it was because of his stupid _pride_. He wouldn't call Harry, because she wouldn't answer. He _couldn__'__t_ call Clara, because since he'd come back from Afghanistan he'd found that things had changed. That those who he'd considered friends weren't quite so friendly anymore.

He was completely alone. And now he was drunk to boot. He glanced around at the busy pub, at the happy couples and groups of friends. Everyone had _someone_.

Save one lone young man, sat at the other end of the bar.

He was nursing what looked like a whisky, with a gaunt, lost look on his face. _Odd_, thought John, _he__looks__familiar.__Something__about__the__eyes-_  
>His brain stopped dead as the young man looked up, and his eyes widened in recognition.<p>

_Rory._  
>John staggered out of his chair and pounded out of the pub into the chill night air, hoping beyond hope that he hadn't been seen.<br>"John?"  
><em>Shit<em>.

John turned to face him slowly, the drunken haze making it hard for him to move carefully, _to__not__show__his__heart._

"John what are you doing here?" Rory said, not daring to move any closer to him.  
>"I live a couple of roads away. I came back about a month ago. Shot," he answered the unasked question, "in the shoulder."<p>

Rory nodded slowly. A guilty look hung around his eyes.  
>"How's Amy?"<br>Rory winced. John had touched a nerve.  
>"Gone." Rory replied, taking a step closer him, trying to gauge his reaction.<br>"Sorry." John said, not meaning it. "Why?"  
>Rory blinked, pressing his lips tighter together before replying<br>"She found your letters."

Before he knew how it had started John and Rory were kissing. Hot lips pressed hard against each other in the chilly night air, breath hardly caught as hands roamed over clothes, longing to rediscover the familiar flesh beneath.  
>It was only when a jeering group of lads knocked them on their way into the pub that John and Rory finally broke apart.<p>

Rory looked a touch embarrassed, and the pink tinge heating his face was reflected in John's own.

"How far away did you say you lived?"

There was barely enough room for the two of them in John's flat. It felt as if they would bump into each other at opposite ends of the room.

It had become awkward. The sat, merely looking at each other for a little while, asking questions.

"Did you think of me?"  
>"Always."<p>

"You stopped writing."  
>"You stopped too."<p>

"Why did you leave?"  
>"I had to."<p>

Then his hands were on John again, desperate, apologetic, tender. _Everything__he__remembered__them__being._

Clothes went, kisses peppered hot skin, bodies met and parted as waves of sensation passed over them.  
>There was barely enough room for them both on John's tiny bed, but he didn't notice as he fell asleep with his arms wrapped around Rory Williams.<p>

It was dawn when John woke again. Arms empty. It took him a moment to sit up and scan the tiny flat for the noise of someone else. There was none.

He went to make himself a cup of tea, and found a hastily scribbled note in his favourite mug.

_I'm sorry. Rory._

After he had cried he opened his desk drawer and slipped it into the envelope that held all the other letters from the man he loved, who could never love him back.


	4. House Calls: Part One

**The prompt for this one was "The Doctor turns up at odd times in Sherlock's life"…It sort of turned out to be more that The Doctor turns up…The situations might become more odd, but the first couple are pretty standard…**

**House Calls: Part One**

Sherlock is four when he first sees the blue box. He doesn't know what it is, but knows that it shouldn't be in the hallway at night.  
>Being a more composed child than most his first reaction on finding it, after reading it's "Police Box" sign, was not to scream and yell for help.<p>

It was to knock.

And a man wearing a leather jacket and a stern expression opened the door quickly. His face changed however into what he clearly hoped was a winning smile as his eyes fell on the child stood before him.

"Hello mate, could you do me a favour and tell me where I am?"

Sherlock scowled, and the mans smile wavered a second.  
>"On the third floor of Finchback Manor, on the Holmes estate."<br>The man waited, his smile becoming a puzzled frown.  
>"Thanks." he said, glancing again at the hallway around him, "Not where I expected, but ah, yes. Well little chap, goodbye!"<p>

And the man snapped the door shut sharply and Sherlock began to walk away. Until he heard the door open again.  
>"Just out of interest," said the man, poking his head out of the door, "what's your name?"<p>

Sherlock looked at the man levelly. He had no reason not to tell him. His rudimentary logic told him that if he was in the house he could be trusted. Like mother, or Mycroft.

"Sherlock Holmes."  
>"Well Sherlock Holmes, nice name by the way, I'll be seeing you very soon."<br>He gave Sherlock a cheeky wink and promptly shut the door again.

It was a moment before the blue police box began to make the most incredible noise, and to fade in and out of sight, before disappearing completely.

Sherlock still had his mouth gaping when Mycroft came to see what the noise was. He carried a tired Sherlock back to bed, unbelieving of the crazy story his little brothers sleep-addled brain had produced.

Sherlock was asleep moments after Mycroft had gone. By morning he had slept away any memory of the big blue box.


	5. House Calls: Part Two

**Part Two of House Calls:**

"Holmes! What did you say this time?"  
>"Say? You mean I have to *say* something to deserve a bloody nose? News to me."<br>"Enough cheek boy. I saw what happened, now what did you say to Sedgwick?"

The ten year old Sherlock huffed slightly. He hated having to explain *again*.

"You see but you don't *observe*. I was merely pointing out a rather large blue object in the corner of the football field that hadn't been there moments previously."  
>He stopped. As though this warranted a full explanation.<br>"And?"  
>Sherlock sighed again.<br>"*And* because it was not there when Sedgwick turned he thought that I was misdirecting him in order to cost him the game." He paused. "Untrue. I have little to no interest in sport."  
>"Nevermind that Holmes, why would you make up some story about a 'blue object'-"<br>"Blue box."  
>"-about a blue box-"<br>"A Police Box."  
>"It doesn't matter if it was a sodding police box! Detention for telling such outright lies Holmes. Report to me at 3:30."<br>"Yes Mr Harding." Sherlock said forlornly.

**Only a quick one, but there's a couple of others coming up!**


	6. House Calls: Part Three

**Another part of the prompt The Doctor turns up in odd places in Sherlock's life.**

House Calls: PART THREE:

The first time Sherlock remembers speaking to the man with the big blue box was barely a month after his detention. He was still sore and bitterly disappointed in the ineptitude of adults. To not believe him when the evidence was there before their eyes!

He hadn't forgotten about the blue box, so when he saw it he ran towards it before it went again. Pumping his skinny legs he found himself chanting _Don't go, don't go_ under his breath.  
>Rather than knocking again he pulled the door open and walked straight inside.<p>

His mouth hit the floor. And he promptly backed straight out of the blue box.

It was _bigger _on the _inside_. Bigger!

He had begun to stumble away when a voice called from behind him,

"Hey, don't I know you?"

The man had short, scruffy hair, and was wearing a long trench-coat, along with a pair of glasses that Sherlock was almost sure didn't have lenses in them. He was peering at Sherlock in a familiarly interested way.

"Sherlock? Sherlock- ah- I do remember-" The stranger broke off, using the heel of his hand to nudge his temple whilst muttering.  
>"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…HOLMES! Sherlock Holmes! Yes! You- we met before! Gosh haven't you grown!"<p>

Sherlock scowled. The stranger was beginning to remind him of one of his hateful great aunts, always wanting to whip out a measuring tape whenever they appeared.

"Though, you don't remember, awfully long time ago- for both of us- I didn't even look like, well, me."  
>He paused a moment, taking in the sight of the dark-haired gangly boy in front of him. Shins bruised, a definite shoe print, the dark circles of lack of sleep, and a mistrustful air.<br>He then remembered that he hadn't introduced himself.

"I'm The Doctor, by the way, we have met. On your estate."

Sherlock was yet to speak, but he took a deep breath and fully intended to question the stranger when he realised that he could hear Sedgwick's rough tones shouting from around the corner.  
>It had become the boys favourite game to tease Sherlock about the blue box, and to knock the stuffing out of him when they could catch him.<p>

Seeing the fear in the young boys eyes The Doctor stepped aside and pushed open the door to the blue box.  
>"Quick, inside."<br>Sherlock hedged a glance at him,  
>"Trust me."<p>

And for some reason, Sherlock did.


	7. Last Salute

**This came from a friend wanting to see some John/Nine angst. It didn't turn out quite how I intended, but I hope you all like it.**

Last Salute

He hadn't wanted to make friends. Making friends seemed superfluous in an environment where your new found companion could be dead at any moment. He knew that most of those surrounding him would end up dead sooner or later. And most of them sooner rather than later.

One man however had managed to survive, had been at his side when the bullet tore through his skin, had stayed behind to fulfil his tour. He'd held John until blackness had swamped his eyes and he'd thought no more.  
>He had been his best friend, until Sherlock came along, his only friend.<p>

That's why when John Smith sent him a postcard saying he was in London and would John like to go for a pint, he couldn't refuse.

The moment he saw him in The Horses Head John was struck by how little he had changed.  
>"Alright John! How you been?"<br>John Smith, toothy, friendly, almost overbearingly Northern, was dresses in civvies consisting of a t-shirt, jeans and a ragged looking leather jacket.  
>John scoffed at Smith's jacket.<p>

"How long have you dressed like something out of The Matrix?"  
>"Since my tour ended. I got out, saw more of the Earth. Neat place."<br>"I'm glad it lived up to your expectations."  
>Smith smiled. Both John's knew that the charade would fade eventually and they would have to talk about why they were really there.<br>But they played pretend a little while longer. John Smith asked John Watson what he was doing now days. John Watson did not ask the same. John Smith wanted to know what living with a madman was like.  
>"Much the same as living with you, Doctor."<p>

The facade slipped and John Watson stopped playing The Doctor's game.

"Why did you bring me here?"

The last time John had seen him, The Doctor had just saved his life. Something he had never forgiven him for. Not that he hadn't appreciated it. More that the way he had been shot meant he should have died, but he didn't.

It had only been John and himself when The Doctor pushed him out of harms way, and was peppered with wounds that any normal man would have died from. John had rushed to the body, expecting to have to leave another friend behind, when the eyes had opened. And they had continued, a rather dazed John Watson trailing in "John Smith's" wake.

It had taken a couple of days, and some gut instinct, for John Watson to confront him.  
>And he had told him the truth. And it had made John's head swim.<p>

"It was true."  
>Back in the here an now John was determined to get the last of the truth out of "John Smith". He remembered how The Doctor had told him that he would get shot, would survive, would have to go back to London, would meet someone very important, would change, and save countless lives. One particular life.<p>

The Doctor took another mouthful of his drink and gazed levelly at John.  
>"Yes."<br>"All of it?"

"Every last word. You are meant to be here now, John. People *need* you. Imagine what Sherlock's life would be like if you hadn't lived, Harry's, Lestrade's! You are a pivotal point in London's history. Without you, there wont be a whole lot of left."  
>"Won't?"<p>

The Doctor paused, clearly warring with himself. There was something more, something he hadn't told John.

"There is a time coming, John, where you will be in graver danger than ever before. You will see others trapped, kidnapped and almost killed because Sherlock has been set clues. He will have 5 cases he must solve, each one with a different innocent strapped to a bomb." He paused, clearly forcing himself to tell John, "When the time comes, you will be kidnapped. And Sherlock will come for you. And the great game will be merely beginning."

The Doctor's grave expression chilled John Watson down to his bones. He wanted to get up and leave, go home, pretend that what he'd heard was untrue.  
>The Doctor's next words stopped him.<p>

"I wanted to know you were safe before I left."

John's brain started, kicking him back into reality.

"Left? Left where."  
>"Here." The Doctor smiled, "Earth. I came here to make sure you lived. And you did. So I'm heading off on my way."<p>

He downed the last dregs of his pint, stood, and held out a hand to John,

"It was an honour serving with you Lieutenant."

John took the proffered hand, squeezing it affectionately, hardly believing he would never see his friend again.

"And with you, Doctor."


	8. House Calls: Part Four

**Part four of the prompt: The Doctor turns up at odd points in Sherlock's life,**

**This one is my favourite from House Calls so far...It's a little bit sad however...**

**House Calls: PART FOUR:**

It is eight years later when Sherlock sees the Doctor again. Eight years and 4 psychoanalysts later. Two of whom he made cry. They had all considered the dark haired boy with a mixture of cynicism and apprehension. They wouldn't believe him, but couldn't understand him.

It had come to the point in Sherlock's life where he was preparing to leave home. To go to university. For the first time he would be free, completely in control of his life. Free from advice from Mycroft, and Mother's fussing, and Father's stern looks. Independence.

He was terrified.

It was his last night before moving out. His childhood bedroom stripped of his essentials felt cold and sterile, things he didn't intend to take with him having been packed away as well as his luggage. All of it stood around his familiar bed in boxes.

He was a ball of gangly, panicking limbs when he heard the noise. The same noise the blue box, the TARDIS, had made when The Doctor had saved him from Sedgwick and his gang all those years ago. The unmistakable whir of the machine had haunted Sherlock's dreams, both sleeping and waking for eight years.

Sherlock stalked out of bed, remembering the words The Doctor had said as he'd dropped him back into the safety of his bedroom, having been in school mere moments beforehand.

"_I'll be back Sherlock. I'm not sure when, or even what I'll look like, but I'll be back."_

And there it was. The TARDIS, in all it's archaic glory. Sat quietly in the garden, for all the world looking as if the gardener had gone a little insane.

He didn't run. Didn't rush to go to it, to The Doctor. All those years without him turning up had taught him that when he did, he would wait. Because The Doctor knew when Sherlock needed him. And that was now.

He padded barefoot across the dewy grass, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of the spongy soil beneath. The crisp cool quality of the air calmed him. He felt an overwhelming calm. Stood looking at the blue box in the middle of a cool summer night. It felt right. If he had his way it would be the last time in a while Sherlock's feet would be on terra firma.

He merely stood and looked at the TARDIS. And the door opened. Out stepped The Doctor. He hadn't even changed clothes since the last time Sherlock has seen him. He looked at Sherlock pensively.

"You came back." Sherlock began.  
>"I said I would." The Doctor looked him up and down before continuing, "I never get used to people aging around me."<br>Sherlock grinned at the sentiment, and at the grumpy look on The Doctor's face. It was when his expression smoothed out and he fixed Sherlock in his gaze that Sherlock could see how old The Doctor truly was. Old and tired.

"So what's new?" The Doctor said gamely, not wholly masking his sadness.  
>Sherlock shrugged, hands in pockets and eyes wandering to glance behind The Doctor to the interior beyond hungrily, before fixing him with a stare.<br>"I want to come with you."  
>The Doctor's eyebrows shot up in questioning, and Sherlock cut across him before he could form words.<br>"You've forgotten what we humans go through Doctor. You turn up here after eight years, eight years for me not you, in the same clothes no less. And you forget that we continue our lives when you're not there, that we live when you're not there. It's been seconds for you, and yes I've aged. I've grown up and I've decided I want the adventure. I want to come with you and see the universe."  
>He took a breath, The Doctor said nothing.<br>"I don't want to stay here. They don't understand. And I don't think they ever will." He paused, and looked at the grass around his feet  
>"I want to come with you."<p>

Silence.

"No."  
>Sherlock's head shot up. He had thought it through, practiced the speech, known every point to hit to get what he wanted- and had failed.<p>

"No?"  
>"No Sherlock. I can't risk taking you with me. I've had enough of-" The Doctor cut off, he couldn't say the words. Not to a teenager.<br>_I've had enough of people dying_.  
>"You're too young-"<br>"I'm eighteen-"  
>"And about to leave home for the first time." The Doctor concluded. Sherlock said nothing. He should have known that The Doctor would sense his fear. "It's something you need to do, Sherlock."<p>

Sherlock nodded solemnly. And began to turn back into the house when a thought struck him.

"If you're not here to take me away, why are you here?"

The Doctor smiled and offered Sherlock a handshake.

"To wish you luck."


	9. House Calls: Part Five

HOUSE CALLS- PART FIVE

Sherlock didn't have friends. That's just the way he worked. All the people he came into contact with seemed to understand this. All except one.

John. The bane of his existence, and irritatingly clever. John Smith.

Even the banality of his name irked Sherlock. It was as if his parents had looked at the ball of flesh and soft bone and nerve endings and cells and thought "Why bother?"  
>John Smith would never tell Sherlock that when the time came he wouldn't think John such a boring name after all. But that would be telling.<p>

It had started at the third lecture of the new year. Sherlock had lived through yet another horrendous Christmas dinner. The comments from Mycroft about his deliberate isolation had begun to make him itch in a way that would only end with something quite dangerously toxic finding its way into his brothers evening tea; the failure to do so was a testament to his self-control. It was these comments that made him suspect of John Smith's motive the moment he chose the empty seat beside Sherlock in that lecture.

"Is this seat taken?" The unbearably cheerful voice said, breaking into the beginning of Sherlock's lecture process. He didn't have a notebook in front of him, or a dictaphone, no way to take notes other than his method. To loose it now would be disastrous.  
>"Please shut up. If you're going to sit down sit down but stop talking."<p>

The stranger obliged, not offended, his grin appeared to widen in fact. He did shut up. Though that didn't make him any less distracting. Sherlock could practically _feel_ him vibrate with excitement, and the strangers eye were rarely on the professor. He seemed far more interested in Sherlock than taking notes.  
>Sherlock refused to let it distract him and the lecture passed in relative normality.<p>

Sherlock already knew that the stranger from the lecture had followed him. He had barely left the theatre when an excited voice was scratching at his eardrums.  
>"So that works then, your committing it to memory?"<br>"Yes."  
>The stranger hummed in an impressed manner, giving Sherlock a sideways glance and falling into step with him easily.<p>

Sherlock stopped suddenly, allowing the stranger to walk a couple of paces before turning on his heel to face him.  
>"Is there a problem?" The stranger returned Sherlock's gaze with an interested air. <em>Far too interested to be benign.<em>  
>"How much did he offer you?" Sherlock said levelly, deep voice flat and uninterested, "You shouldn't listen to a word he says you know, he'd just as soon kill you where you stand as-"<br>"Who? Mycroft? No, no no, "The stranger shook his head "he's nothing to do with this, though I should drop in on him when I go." He wiggled his thin eyebrows at Sherlock and his mild expression "I've got to talk to him about a few things. You're not very talkative, he said that you'd be like that. He also said you wouldn't like me, he knows you awfully well doesn't he? He _also _said you'd have deduced me by now." He paused, "I guess he can't be right about everything!"

Sherlock allowed his face to become somewhat confused. Would Mycroft have stooped so low as to not only pay someone to spy on him, but also someone so... strange?  
>"Mycroft is hardly right about anything. Spend enough time with him and you not only realise his fallibility but also his banality."<br>"It wasn't Mycroft, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a level gaze at the stranger. And for once in his life he was unnerved by the eyes that stared back at him. Old, and dangerous, set in the young face.

He watched as the stranger smiled warmly, sticking out his hand.  
>"John Smith." He offered. "And honestly, I'm not a spy for Mycroft. I'm... I'm here for a friend of yours."<br>Sherlock took the warm hand, his face still schooled into aloof blankness.  
>"I don't have friends."<p>

Far from being offended however, Smith let out a shout, and rather loud, laugh.  
>"That's what you think."<p>

It became somewhat of a weekly ritual. Sherlock would sit his lecture. Smith would turn up a few minutes later, sit next to him without speaking, and watch him commit the lecture to memory. They'd walk along the long path from Sherlock's lecture hall to the split in the path, where they would part ways for another week.

John Smith, though relentlessly cheerful and seemingly unfazed by Sherlock's focused attention, began to irritate Sherlock less and less. To the point where he found himself forgetting to keep up his disdainful air around him. He slowly began to enjoy the seeming admiration that John Smith seemed to foster for him, and Smith's willingness to be a soundboard for Sherlock's thoughts.

It was only after a couple more weeks of seeing Smith at his lectures that Sherlock finally hit upon a thought that was so mind-blowingly simple that he could not believe he hadn't considered it before.

He didn't know anything about John Smith. He had his name, and...that's it. He didn't know whether he lived on campus, or whether he really was working for Mycroft. And of all the things he still didn't know who this _friend_ he apparently had was supposed to be.

Sherlock hated being bested. He decided that he would confront Smith about this the next time he saw him, and found himself geared up and _looking_ for John Smith the next week as students continued to file into the lecture hall.

John Smith didn't turn up. He didn't turn up the next week either.

Sherlock turned detective in order to make some enquiries. He found nothing, there was no John Smith on his, or any other course at the uni, no one else had even_heard _of him. It was though he had just dropped right out of the sky.  
>And now he was gone.<p>

Another few weeks passed. Sherlock continued with his studies, fully focussed on the work before him, shunning the attentions of others. He didn't want _people_. People were messy, they talked to much and stupidly, they were wrapped up in the world of this latest band or that latest trend or who was sleeping with who. Sherlock had tried getting on with them, but ultimately he and _people_ avoided each other.  
>But he still remembered John Smith and the shine in his eyes.<p>

He had very nearly almost given up on seeing Smith again when he spied him, walking into the same lecture hall. Smith caught his eye and grinned, waving both arms at Sherlock and making him groan slightly with embarrassment.

Smith strolled casually up to the seat next to Sherlock, and without uttering a word sat down.

The lecture went as expected and as they left Sherlock attempted to brush Smith off.  
>"Woah hey, Sherlock what-"<br>Sherlock rounded on John Smith.  
>"Six weeks. You were gone six weeks. You don't take notes at lectures. Your name isn't anywhere on the University database, there isn't a single student who can lay claim to having lived with you, worked with you or even having seen you the a bar. Enough is enough. Who are you?"<p>

John Smith's mouth pursed into a thin line, and he seemed at once chastened and delighted. The same spark in his eyes that he got when listening to Sherlock expound his latest theory had found its way back now.  
>"Well. That took you long enough!" He grinned. "I told you, I was here for a friend of yours."<br>Sherlock's brows knitted. Smith wasn't going to give him an easy answer clearly.  
>"I-"<br>"'Don't have friends' I know, I know, boring things, other people, eh Sherlock? But friends is different to a friend."

Sherlock could feel a headache coming on, and was glad when Smith was interrupted by a sandy-haired man, rather red-faced and looking a little grumpy, appeared at Sherlock's shoulder and shoved Smith's arm in a chiding manner.  
>"You! I have been running 'round this city for three <em>hours<em> looking for you! You can't just do that! And why are you at the u-"  
>He had turned to face Sherlock, as though to apologise on Smith's behalf, on seeing his face however the sandy-haired stranger's face had gone slack and he had been struck dumb. His eyes widened. His gaze roamed around Sherlock's face, the intense gaze something that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to look away from. He looked at Sherlock as though he fully expected him to disappear.<p>

"John, this is Sherlock." Said Smith quietly. Sherlock couldn't draw his eyes away from the older man. He was stocky and unassuming, his face was open and kind and Sherlock felt a pang of something unfamiliar in his stomach. He knew this man, but he didn't know him.  
>"Sherlock, this is John Watson."<p>

Sherlock proffered his hand, and was surprised by the surety of the man's handshake.  
>"Pleased to meet you...John."<br>John still hadn't continued talking and John Smith had started to dart anxious looks between the two of them. He began to dance nervously on the balls of his feet before speaking directly to John Watson.  
>"John, we have to go. I said no for a reason but now-"<p>

John Watson tore his gaze away from Sherlock, only then noticing that they hadn't broken their shake, in order to glare at Smith.  
>"You said-"<br>"I didn't." Smith said airily, holding his hands aloft in surrender. "I promise. And now we really have to go."  
>"Right. Fine. Right."<br>Watson turned his gazed back to Sherlock.  
>"It was good to see you, Sherlock." He said, swallowing hard after saying his name, before turning on his heel and beginning to walk stiffly back the way he came.<p>

Sherlock watched him walk away. The odd pang felt strangely like guilt, but he couldn't put his finger on what he had done to John Watson to feel guilty about. He turned back to John Smith.  
>"So, Smith and Watson. Inventive."<br>"Inventive?"  
>"Well. John is clearly his name, but it most certainly is not yours."<br>Smith laughed heartily, gripping Sherlock firmly by the shoulders.  
>"I have missed you Sherlock! But, there's always the next time!" He gave Sherlock a gentle shake, before walking off after John Watson.<p>

There was only one thing Sherlock wanted to ask John Smith now.  
>"Smith?"<br>He turned to face Sherlock.  
>"Who was he?"<br>Smith smiled and nodded, knowing full well who Sherlock meant.  
>"That was the friend I was keeping an eye on you for."<br>Smith smiled softly, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

This time Sherlock let him walk away.


	10. The Answer

**The Answer**

**So this came from a Wholock prompt on Tumblr... First part, there will be more.**

It starts when John decides to tidy up after Sherlock. Up until this point John had been under the impression that Sherlock was a messy person. That was until he saw Sherlock's bedroom. Pristine, military almost. It reflected a childhood of being treated like an adult.

It seems to John that Sherlock is only capable of keeping one room of the flat tidy at a time. Sherlock still leaves his towels damp on the bathroom floor. Sherlock still refuses to do the washing up- ever. Sherlock still puts his shoes up on the coffee table. And Sherlock still has piles and piles of books, knick-knacks littered around Baker Street, and unopened boxes of who-knows-what lurked in corners. Their absence from Sherlock's room is how John believes he keeps it tidy.

So on a Thursday when Sherlock had somehow managed to get a case before John had woken up, probably having not slept since the night before, John decided to organise the flat. He begins hefting the books into the empty shelves, even deigning to alphabetise them- though he suspects that Sherlock would much prefer the Dewy decimal system. He couldn't bring himself to care.

It was only when John finished with the books and started opening up neglected boxes that he almost regretted touching Sherlock's things.  
>Sentiment wasn't something John imagined Sherlock feeling a lot of, and yet here was a photo album, filled obviously with people Sherlock cared about. The strangers smiled at the camera, happy. Sherlock was in a few of them, even fewer of them had evidence of him smiling. Looking back through them John was struck with the realisation of how little he knew about Sherlock.<p>

The box with the photo album held various other things, some of which John couldn't recognise as something Sherlock would ever own. A carved wooden box bearing intricate circular patterns hid beneath several more photo albums, the contents of which seemed to _call_ almost to him.  
>A gentle thrumming under his fingers, almost as if someone is singing in such a bass tone that human ears can't hear it, only <em>feel<em> it. He traced a few of the circles, the thrumming becoming stronger.

John replaced the box, steadily ignoring the beat he could still feel under his skin. He closed the box and continued cleaning and sorting Sherlock's other things.  
>That cardboard box stays closed for a week longer.<p>

That week John notices a change in Sherlock. He sees Sherlock's quiet contemplation punctuated by the occasional quirk of his head, ear cocked as though he could hear something that John could not.  
>He would be mid-flow, expelling his doubt at the origins of a particular burn mark on a victims neck, when he would stop. A stop so small and so subtle that no one else noticed. His eyes grew a little distant, as though focusing on something that no one else could see, before snapping back to the present, the case, the work.<p>

It took a week for the tension to become overwhelming, for the thrumming bass under John's skin to become palpable in his every move. It took a week for John to drag the covered box out once more, to unearth the carved wooden box from beneath the photo albums.  
>He held it reverently, the thrumming becoming rhythmic, he could feel it coming from the box. His hand hovered once more over the clasp keeping the box shut, so close, so very nearly-<p>

"John? What are you doing?"

The rumble pulled John from his reverie, and he dropped the box in shock.  
>"Sherlock, I didn't hear you come in."<p>

The look on Sherlock's face was blank.  
>"John Watson, what are you doing with that box?"<br>John gathered to box to himself again, the thrumming had become louder, deeper, more rhythmic. Almost as though it knew Sherlock's presence. John could _feel_ it.  
>"Nothing." He replied breathlessly. "I was just tidying some of your things-"<br>"Give it here."  
>There was no mistaking the command in his voice, touched by something that John couldn't quite place. <em>Concern? Panic?<em>

A small part of John's brain saw the outstretched hand, and didn't want to hand over the box. That part was silenced by the look in Sherlock's eyes. He held out the box.

The moment the box left John's fingers the drumming stopped. Sherlock's eyes widened. _He can hear them,_ John thought, _he can hear the drums_.  
>Sherlock's deft fingers flicked the catch of the box and threw back the lid in one fluid motion. As though he did it every day of his life. John was gone to him now, all he could see was the box in his hands and its contents. He dipped his fingers into the box, and gazed reverently at the dull, gold pocket watch.<p>

"Sherlock?" John could see that his voice had dragged Sherlock back from a gaping precipice. Sherlock narrowed his gaze.  
>"Where did you get this?"<br>"It was in amongst your things. Why? Where did you get it?"  
>"Haven't a clue. Never seen it before in my life."<br>Sherlock's attention went back to the pocket watch, more in control than before. Clearly trying to glean _something_ from it's surface. John caught the wooden box as Sherlock cast it aside.  
>"Unimportant." He muttered.<p>

John watched quietly as Sherlock paced with the watch in hand. He flipped it over and over, swung it suspiciously, smelt and licked its surface, making a face at the metallic tang, eventually putting it to his ear.  
>"Broken." He said shortly, tossing it into John's lap. "Uninteresting. Boring."<p>

John glared at him. He didn't recognise it, and here it was in amongst his things. And that was boring? John turned it over in his hands, noticing that it had the same circular patterns engraved on it as the wooden box also sat in his lap.  
>Sherlock had long retreated when John stopped inspecting the watch. Had sashayed off to start another toxic experiment in their kitchen probably. The silly bugger hadn't even bothered <em>opening<em> the damn thing. He turned it in such a way that the dial used to alter the clock's face was beneath his forefinger, the warm weight of it settled in his palm. It was only then that he noticed that the sound of drums had stopped.

John clicked open the watch.

The hush that fell just before it happened was unearthly. It was as though all sound had been sucked away, until there was only the sound of falling rain, and faint drumming. And it was coming from the golden mist that had spiralled up out of the pocket watch in John Watson's hand.  
>It paused, and John's mind almost believed that the mist was sentient, before rushing in a great blur of golden light into the kitchen. John heard the sound of glass breaking. And the drumming had stopped.<p>

The rain however suddenly seemed to be beating against the windows of Baker Street. It had become much darker. John sprang up from his chair, the wooden box fell to the ground, the watch still clutched in his palm.  
>"Sherlock?" He called, filled with trepidation, "You alright?"<p>

The sight that greeted him when he reached the kitchen was like any other time he had glanced into the kitchen. Other that the broken beaker on the tiled ground, there was nothing out of place. Sherlock has his back to him, stood with one hand curled into his dark hair in a rough claw, the other hung limply by his side.  
>The golden mist had gone. Sherlock wasn't answering him.<br>"Sherlock?" John said again, agitation rising in his voice, "Did you see that-"  
>That was when Sherlock turned around, and John barely recognised him.<p>

His usually sharp and bright eyes were dull, and filled with tears, gazing past his empty hands to the floor below. His gaze finally raised to John's, and he stared at him as though looking at a stranger.  
>"Oh John," he whispered, his voice nothing like any tone John had ever heard him use before, warmer and yet miserable, fond and somehow chiding gently, "what have you done?"<p> 


	11. House Calls: Part Six

His ribcage seemed set to crack under the pressure of his heartbeat. He could feel his breathing becoming ragged, and could hear the laborious breaths of the man beside him slicing through the din like a knife. The pain, the pressure, the noise. It all dissolved in the face of this new blinding light running through his veins. Unprecedented and unequalled; finally Sherlock had found something to tame the rapid forest-fire in his brain. It was _bliss._

He welcomed the cold invasion under his skin, tearing him open and baring his insides for scrutiny and display. The foreign entity colonised, sweeping his body and taking it for his own. It made him its home, and he learned their language; the pleasant buzz and all consuming clarity. Nothing before had been so all-consuming, so much like drowning himself in quiet. The emissary of the entity, the quiet, the drug, was beautiful. Victor had rakish hair, and piercing green eyes. In his haze he sometimes imagined Victor dressed in brocade, with flowing hair like a long-dead Venetian. When he tried to say this out loud he reached the part about Victor being dead, and would freeze, he would fix him with a steady gaze and refuse to speak for days. He was learning the invaders language, and its sweet music.

They continued much like this, with Victor bringing new invasions into his blood, each with its own language and music, making his very body sing with chemicals both natural and immoral, for what felt like years. Time became a fluid entity, slipping steadily through Sherlock's cupped hands. Several times he tried to reason with Victor, tried to get him to leave and "_take it with you. It rots my brain, makes me _weak_. Get out! Get _OUT!"

Sherlock would brood, arms wrapped around his frail frame, thoughts slowly but surely beginning to catch up with him. To race and scream and tumble over themselves. He would call Victor back, hours or days after the words had already been said. He would beg him. And sometimes, just to serve him right, Victor would return. And they would start again.

"_...is the last time...I swear to God Sherlock...die because of your own...smack you three ways from..." _The voice seemed familiar, and if it hadn't sounded so angry, it could have been described as fond. Familiar in a way that reminded him of being young and small and vulnerable _and finding a blue box and knocking on the door._ He was being moved, buffeted and shoved. Fingers pinched and dragged against his skin, his bones felt soft and stretched. Lifting. He was being lifted away. Before...nothing. Finally, he slept.

"_I'd wake up...can't keep on...Sherlock?...Sherlock!..._Sherlock!"

Sherlock opened his eyes, vision clearing as faces above him swam into view. One he knew, he could name...if only he could make his tongue cooperate. The world seemed to even out a little, his body feeling less like it was floating. More like it had crashed back to Earth, burying itself underground. He felt as though his brain was clawing its way out of the cold, clammy earth. But the voices were becoming clearer. _Voices. _There was more than one. And they were discussing him. Their tones hushed and worried.

"I'm afraid I can't allow-"

"Detective, I can assure you he would be in the best care. I am more than qualified-"

"You call yourself his doctor? A doctor of what? You haven't been here the last _three times_ this has happened-"

"I know, there was a problem with timing-"

"_Timing!"_ Lestrade hissed, almost angrily.

Sherlock groaned in discontent, his throat feeling as though he hadn't spoken for an age. The voices stopped. He smiled in a vague sort of way, once again centre of his own little world.

"Fine," Detective Lestrade said, waving a hand towards the strung out junkie on his sofa, "Take him...doctor?" He narrowed his eyes at the gangly man, with thick glasses and messy hair. He wasn't entirely certain about his qualifications, but he'd had ID with him. Who was Lestrade to argue?

"Just 'The Doctor'," The Doctor grinned, leaning over Sherlock's limp body for a few moments before stretching and hauling him up underneath the elbows, "Uh, Detective?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Could you help me get him downstairs into the car?"

The next morning Sherlock was curled up on his own sofa, the debris of the previous night all too evident among the mess that constituted his floor. His nose crinkled delicately at the sight of it all. And finally, after all that had happened, it sickened him.

"You came back," Sherlock murmured, eyes riveted to a particular scrap of paper by The Doctor's foot, "You came back. But not to take me with you." His gaze burned into The Doctor's cheek, still refusing to look him in the eye. It looked as though The Doctor might speak. He did not.  
>"You could have let me die," Sherlock's voice was calm and even, cold, "Why didn't you?"<p>

The Doctor rubbed a hand through his hair, smiling tightly, before turning his head ever so slightly.

"It was not your time."


End file.
